Waldsterben
by My Misguided Fairytale
Summary: One-Shot Collection / #6, AU to 1x18: Death tastes like cinnamon.
1. Goblin Markets

**Collection Notes**: This is a collection of one-shots for various challenges, most of which originated over on livejournal and the stories are now being cross-posted over here! Expect a little of everything, from pairings to gen, AU and canon-ish, although the stories tend to be on the darker side. _Waldsterben _is another word for 'forest dieback,' a condition in trees where the peripheral parts are killed. I like the word and the metaphorical connotations, so I'm using it as the title for this collection. I hope you enjoy the stories!

**Challenge Name and Number**: #01, Favorite Characters  
**Story Title**: Goblin Markets  
**Word Count**: 792  
**Warnings** (if applicable): Mild horror  
**Pairings** (if applicable): Nick x Juliette  
**Summary**: "Their fruits like honey to the throat, but poison in the blood," she whispered. "I like you. I think I'll keep you."  
**Author's** **Note**: Pre-canon AU; inspired by the poem by Christina Rossetti. First-Place winner and Most Creative winner of the first Grimm Challenge on LJ!

_"We must not look at goblin men,_  
_We must not buy their fruits:_  
_Who knows upon what soil they fed_  
_Their hungry thirsty roots?"_

**Goblin Markets**

The city kept a farmer's market on Saturdays, nearby the coffeehouse he frequented for breakfast. It was off a side street, in an area that didn't get a whole lot of pedestrian traffic, and seemed to specialize in organic and exotic fruits and produce. Nick had heard about it from someone—couldn't remember who—but had never before been tempted to go, as it was probably overpriced and the convenience was low.

The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen was standing behind one of the fruit stands, and Nick was almost embarrassed at how he lingered behind a stack of crates, watching her as she set up, arranging signs and lifting the cloths that covered a series of long baskets filled with fruit.

The market wasn't by any means packed — more people stood in lines than milled around, and he stopped to look at a few displays as he made his way closer to the fruit stand. He could hear her, waving and calling out to a few of the others working at the market, carrying crates down the center lane. He bumped into someone in line and murmured an apology, but the man just stood there blankly, turned away from him, more content to rearrange the contents of the basket in their hands. There wasn't a line at that particular fruit stand yet, and he moved closer.

Her hair seemed to shine so brightly under the sun; it captivated him. He hadn't thought he was hungry—he had just come from breakfast—but the thought of buying something here seemed to become more appealing the longer he was there. The produce cart beside him had some of the freshest vegetables he'd ever seen, from bright peppers to faultless gourds. There was a smell, too, crisp in the air, and the longer he stood there the more his senses became attuned to it. He approached the stand.

"Hey," he said. "What do you have here?"

She kept eye contact with him as she gestured towards the different bins. "Starfruit, Bosc pears, Honey-Crisp apples, peaches from Samarkand. All perfect, I assure you."

"I can see that."

She looked away, the corners of her mouth lifting up in a pleased smile. "Tell me what you'd like, then."

"I'll take a few pears. Make it three." He reached in his pocket for some money as she opened a plastic bag and began to fill it. "I'll try one now. I'd like your name, too," he added.

His hand closed around one of the cinnamon-colored, long-necked pears, lifting it to his mouth. He inhaled it first, closing his teeth around the flesh before biting in. The taste of it was immediate, like a punch to the stomach. It was almost unbearably sweet, and he found himself involuntarily taking a second bite.

His vision seemed to tilt and swim, and she was by his side in a second, one hand bracing the side of his head, the other sliding up his arm to where he held the pear. "It's indescribable, isn't it?"

Something was horribly wrong, he knew that on some level, but at that moment all he could think about was getting more of the pear. It was an itch in his bloodstream now, and he frowned as she pulled the pear away from him, her fingers cool against his own, and bit into the other side of the fruit. "And it's Juliette."

She took another bite, and he couldn't take it any longer. His hands grasped the sides of her face, bringing him closer as he crashed his lips onto hers, using her surprise to slide the piece of pear from behind her teeth with his tongue and bring it into his own mouth. He broke the kiss but remained close, stealing her breath as the taste of pear calmed him again.

"What…did you do to me?" He spit out the words.

"_Their fruits like honey to the throat, but poison in the blood_," she whispered. "I like you. I think I'll keep you." Her voice turned teasing, accusing.

She reached for another basket. "The pears are addictive, aren't they? I've got another one I think you'll like. The peaches…they'll make you forget certain things."

He blinked twice as something about her appearance changed; her hair began to shimmer, and something in her face sharpened. It was over in a flash, and he was left staring at her as she offered him the second fruit, pressing it against his mouth.

He took a bite, and the world disappeared.

:::

"Dinner's ready," Juliette called. "Let me fix you a plate. How was work today?"

The table between them was full of platters of chicken and vegetables, and for the centerpiece, a bowl of perfectly ripened fruit.


	2. Totenpass

**Challenge Name and Number**: #02, Emotions  
**Story Title**: Totenpass  
**Word Count**: 910  
**Warnings** (if applicable): None  
**Pairings** (if applicable): Nick x Juliette  
**Summary**: She can see the dead as they have died, bodies broken and wailing in sorrow, but never before has she seen one like this.  
**Author's** **Note**: This takes place at the end of the second episode. The quote is from Charles Bukowski's _Consummation of Grief_. This story won Third-Place and Most Creative recognition at the second Grimm Challenge on LJ! I hope you enjoy.

_"I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead." _

**Totenpass**

"Here you go, dear." The woman smiles kindly at him as she wraps the flowers in clear plastic. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." The response is automatic, but the sentiment behind it is anything but; he has heard the phrase more times than he cares to count and has spoken it himself more times than he should ever have to, but it still seems surreal to be the one on the receiving end for a change. It still doesn't change the fact that Marie is dead, and has left behind a bequest that he barely understands. He wonders, not for the first time, if her fate will eventually also be his.

The flower-cart does a brisk business, and Nick exchanges a five-dollar bill for a bouquet of yellow and blue flowers, something colorful for a day that feels anything but. Marie's grave is in the middle of a row, near a large tree; she would have liked that, Nick thinks. Juliette reaches for his free hand and grasps it tightly, offering silent comfort, unsure of what to say that hasn't already been said before. With Marie gone, his family is reduced to the two of them. They have never thought of themselves as a family before, but he is starting to like the idea.

The two stand together before the gravesite, and Nick settles the flowers on the ground, where the breeze ruffles the edges of the plastic to curl them over the flowers. It almost looks like it is protecting the flowers from the wind.

"If you want to talk…" Juliette trails off, but Nick shakes his head.

"Maybe later." And he does want to talk about it, desperately, but Marie had advised him not to, and he is determined to do her strange legacy justice—investigating the trailer was his next step, and trying to uncover as much as he can about the world she had lived in for so long.

"When my grandmother died, we all went back to her house—she kept a recipe box, and we made every single one. We just wanted to taste her cooking again. Ours didn't taste a thing like it, but it was cathartic." Juliette sighs wistfully, offering him a smile. "She was phenomenal. I get that from her, you know."

"I know," he says, chuckling. Juliette has always been so good at cheering him up.

"I…didn't know your Aunt well, but I think you get a lot from her. She was a very strong woman."

Nick knows Juliette is referring to her battle with cancer and her fight against the pretend priest, but he has an entirely different battle in mind. And she is entirely correct; he likes to think he deserves the compliment in comparing the two of them. He likes to think he'll be able to find that same strength in himself, to go after _the bad ones_, to maintain justice in his city.

"Thanks." He has been staring at the gravestone long enough to memorize every bit of engraving, every last wrinkle and blemish in the granite. That's enough.

"Marie would tell me not to mourn her," he says. "She'd get mad at me for wasting my time on someone who's dead when I could be working to save the living." He pauses, and links his hand with one of Juliette's once more. "I hope she can finally be at peace. Are you ready to go home?"

"It _is _getting a little chilly," she responds. It isn't, but it's enough of an excuse, and he pulls her just a little bit closer as they walk down the lane, away from the grave. At the entrance they walk past a set of thick wrought-iron gates and the flower-cart; the line is empty now, and the woman waves to them as they pass.

Once they are gone, the woman turns to the air beside her. "Was he yours?"

"Yes." The spirit of Marie Kessler leans against the gates, her body half-submerged in the iron. She passes through it easily, precise and moody, and continues, "Thank you for your company."

"The _obol _has been paid. Your spirit will move on, soon." The woman studies Marie's face, expecting to find relief or fear, the most common expressions on the souls she sees at the cemetery, but finds nothing but acceptance. "My kind has always ensured that offerings of some kind are made to ensure the safe passage of all souls to the next life." She can see the dead as they have died, bodies broken and wailing in sorrow, but never before has she seen one like this.

"And to prevent them from returning," is her wry reply.

"You know your folklore. But I'm not surprised, you _are _a Grimm." The woman wipes down the flower-cart's metal counter, brushing the flower clippings to the ground.

"I worry about him." Marie continues to stare in the direction the young man had walked, now out of sight. "I left him too soon. There's so much more I should've…if only..."

She hesitates for only a second, distracted by the skin of her arms, already pale and paper-thin, steadily growing lighter and more transparent. "Can you pass along a message? Please?"

"No, dear. Not even for a Grimm." She watches as Marie's spirit completely disappears; the _obol _paid, there is nothing more to hold her to this life.

"I do not get involved with mortal affairs," she says. "I only sell flowers."

* * *

Notes:

1) _Totenpass_ is a German term that in English can be understood as a "passport for the dead" (Wikipedia). Seemed apt.

2) The _Obol_ is a reference to the "coin placed in or on the mouth of a dead person before burial" (Wikipedia), but instead of a coin, I use it to refer to any offering—here, namely, the flowers.

3) Thank you for reading! I promise, more horror to come in upcoming one-shots! =)

~Jess


	3. Toxicity

**Challenge Name and Number**: #03, Rewrite  
**Story Title**: Toxicity  
**Word Count**: 2338  
**Warnings** (if applicable): Mild Horror  
**Pairings** (if applicable): None  
**Summary**: "The strongest magic is in blood. There is nothing that powerful blood cannot accomplish. It can construct and deconstruct. You will make such things some day when you are older." She smiled fondly at her daughter. "I cannot wait for that day."  
**Author's** **Note**: Flashbacks; ending scene takes place in episode 1.17, "Love Sick." I found it fascinating that Grimm blood could cancel out Hexenbiests' identities, so I wondered if perhaps the powers could be given in a similar kind of ritual. The quote is from the original Grimm version of _Little Snow-White_. This story won First-Place recognition at the third Grimm Challenge on LJ! I hope you enjoy.

* * *

_"You specimen of beauty," said the wicked woman, "now you are finished."_

**Toxicity**

When she was born her mother had hastened to grab the screaming infant from the nurse, halting the cries by grabbing her daughter's tongue and turning it to spy the birthmark on the underside, puckered and dark. It was good, she said, that she had been favored and marked in such a way, and Catherine passed a hand over the top of the infant's head, where what little bit of hair that had already grown in was downy and so light that it looked silver to her eyes. She was pleased at that much, but the squalling cries and the wrinkled face of her daughter were hardly beautiful, and so she ignored the child as she grew, delegated her to nannies and their extended clan, neighbor women with other girls of the same age who had less demands on their time.

"Adalind, my dear," Catherine said, "come and help your mother get ready." And the little girl, now seven, complied, white-blond hair bouncing as she hurried up to the vanity in her mother's room, spread with foreign cosmetics and even stranger concoctions in rows of glass jars.

"This color, don't you think?" Her mother held up a dark lipstick. Adalind nodded, watching her mother apply it. Catherine studied her own face in the mirror so intensely, giving so much of her attention towards the simple and inconsequential act of preparing her face for work.

"You too, dear." Satisfied with her own appearance, she turned and grabbed Adalind's face with slim, perfect fingers, gliding the lipstick on. It tasted waxy and was altogether too heavy, but when she stood on tiptoes to see in the mirror she looked like her mother. "Beautiful. I have such a beautiful daughter."

She sounded proud of it.

She was often made-over alongside her mother, watching as she colored her face in the mornings or applied leeches in the evenings. Catherine would beckon her over and comb red-lacquered fingernails through her hair, talking to the vanity mirror before them about what she should do that evening. Minutes later, a green cream was spread over her neck and face, the smell so strong and repellent that it took all of her willpower not to scrape it off with her fingernails and heave the contents of her stomach into a bin in the corner. As she worked, she talked to her daughter, telling her the ingredients in each of her salves and solutions, turning even this into a lesson.

"You will have to do this for yourself one day when you are older," she said. "You must learn to do it properly. My mother was very strict in my education, and I will not be lax with yours."

Adalind hovered around her mother in the evenings, watching her work at her tables and her potions, mixing and fashioning different concoctions and disclosing the instructions.

"This one, dear, is a poison, to be injected into a person's food. I think I'll put it in an apple. Perfectly concealed, yet toxic only to the target from the way it is brewed. The strongest magic is in blood. There is nothing that powerful blood cannot accomplish. It can construct and deconstruct. You will make such things some day when you are older." She smiled fondly at her daughter. "I cannot wait for that day."

"When?" She looked up from the pestle she had been playing with, eager at the thought of pleasing her mother, of gaining the favor that she so infrequently bestowed. "What must I do?"

"It is a secret, my dear," Catherine said. "You will learn when you are older, when you come into your inheritance. All of the secrets of our order shall be yours on that day. Then you will be able to truly help me serve our royal family."

For a second, panic and terror seized her heart in an iron grip. "They will like me, won't they? I won't disappoint them?"

Her mother reached forward, white powder sticking to the edges of her fingers, and brushed a lock of hair behind Adalind's ear. A bit of it smudged against her skin, but she refused to wipe it off, enjoying the gritty feel of it; it helped her keep Catherine's touch in her memory longer.

"How could they not like you when you are so beautiful? One smile, and they will not be able to refuse you. I see big things for your future, my dear." Her smile turned downwards, and she dismissed Adalind with a wave of a hand. "Now leave me, darling, I must do this next work in private."

The years went on, and Adalind suffered under her mother's auspices as she learned more and more of what she referred to as the _family craft_, making potions that hurt and healed and learning the names of every herb and plant in their stores.

"I remember it myself," Catherine told her, days before her sixteenth birthday, "when I was given my birthright. We call it that for a reason, you know." And she winked, as though she was sharing a joke.

"I cannot wait," Adalind replied. And she couldn't—after everything she had been told, after everything her mother had promised her, taking the final step seemed like a choice as natural as breathing. "I would like nothing more than to make you proud of me."

Her birthday came and passed, and she was given nothing. "You will get your gifts," her mother said in a low whisper. "Soon. I am working on something for you."

One otherwise ordinary evening her mother came to her and led her to their car, holding the door open as she slid inside the passenger seat. "It is time." Catherine's smile was luminous, and she chatted as they drove. "You remember Serena Dunbrook? You will be sharing your initiation with her." Her expression turned disapproving for only a second, the frown bringing out the wrinkles around her mouth. "I would rather you have the spotlight to yourself, but there isn't anything I can do about that. As if she could compare to you, anyway."

The word _initiation _filled her with trepidation and glee. "How many people will be there?" she asked carefully.

"Our number is smaller than you think. A few families. The one you will serve—the young Mr. Renard will be very taken with you, I think."

She nodded, and they passed the remainder of their trip in silence; Adalind stared out the window, watching the trees get taller as they headed into more rural lands and the sun dropped closer to the ground, burning red against the horizon.

Catherine pulled the car over in a gravel lot off of a side road, on the edge of the forest. "We walk from here, darling," she said. "Don't twist an ankle."

Her heels were unreliable on the uneven ground, sinking into the dirt and turning on the rocks, but as the two walked, Adalind kept an eye out for anyone or anything out there to give her an idea of what was about to happen. The air had grown chilly, and as they walked the trees seemed to split the low-lying sun. Anticipation hummed through her, heightening her senses, making each step measured.

She recognized a particular tree whose bark would produce a soporific effect when brewed in a tea and a kind of vine whose thorns were a main ingredient in one of her mother's favorite potions. Before them, the path sloped, and a small wooden building came into view. It seemed as much a part of the landscape as the trees around them, and she raised a questioning eyebrow towards her mother.

"A bathhouse?"

"Come along, dear." Her mother took her arm, then, and led her towards the bathhouse; the wooden siding was edged with moss, and smoke rose in a thin coil from a spout at the top of the sloped roof. She could hear voices inside, and as Catherine opened the door a strange, pungent smell wafted from inside.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, but when she did she saw a cadre of women, gathered over a circular table upon which rested a large, iron bowl. The room was filled with steam, obscuring the faces of the people there and making her feel slightly dizzy. Her mother pushed her towards Serena Dunbrook and went to sit down at a bench alongside the wall, next to a young man in a dark dress shirt.

"Adalind Shade." An older woman called her name first, and she stepped forward, into the center of the room. If anything, it seemed to grow darker, and the woman offered her a goblet of whatever was in the cauldron. The liquid was thick and red, and smelled so strongly of iron that she knew it must be from blood.

"Today, you come of age to join the ranks of our order and receive your birthright. Once this passes your tongue, you will be one of us. Do you accept this?"

The strongest magic is in blood, her mother had told her once. As the woman handed her the goblet, she noticed the cut in the woman's hand. Her blood had gone into the potion, she knew. Glancing around the room, Adalind wondered if each person there would have such a cut.

She hesitated with the cup at her lips, staring at the thin film that had begun to develop on top of the liquid. Her stomach turned, but she kept her voice strong as she murmured an assent and slid her lips over the rim of the cup. She had endured worse than this; she could drink this mixture and keep it down. She could do it.

The drink was thicker than she expected, and slid down her throat like syrup. She coughed at the first sip but refused to break, keeping the cup at her lips as she swallowed it all down. Draining it, she returned it to the woman's waiting arms, coughing again, wiping her lips with the back of one hand and watching with detached horror the streak of red against her pale skin.

Sweat began to prickle along her body, from her arms to her neck, and her limbs felt weak. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth, and her mother was by her side in an instant.

"Show her," the old woman commanded, and Catherine led her from the room, into one of the baths, another room of aged wooden walls and steam. Basins of water lined one wall, while a freestanding mirror was placed against another.

"I feel…different." It was a struggle to get the words out. "What…happened to me?"

"I made such a beautiful creature," Catherine said. "Now, you are at the pinnacle of beauty! Look at yourself—look, dear. I am so proud of you."

She looked as the mirror was tilted forward, as her face shifted and changed. She felt it beneath her skin, felt the bones waver and shift as the skin sank and tightened around her mouth. Her skin, ash-gray, stood starkly against her dark eyes and brittle hair, lightened to the point of being colorless. She had never seen something more hideous in her life.

"What am I?"

Her lips were pulled back to reveal her teeth, jutted at odd angles, and her mouth ached as she tried to speak. "What is this? What have I—"

"You've become beautiful, Adalind. You've become powerful. You've become a Hexenbiest." Her mother's face shifted then, too, and she could see the resemblance between them all the more clearly now that their faces were just bone and tightly stretched skin. "Now come. You must add your blood to the cauldron with the rest of ours. Serena cannot drink without it."

She allowed herself to be led back, her hand raised, palm up. It was cut with a knife so sharp she barely felt it, and wrapped without concern. Three drops of her blood had trickled into the mix with the rest, and she watched as Serena accepted the goblet and choked it down, gasping and changing as she had.

Adalind watched the other women; now she saw them for how they really looked, like creatures of nightmares. Sweat mixed with the cut in her palm and stung; the taste of blood was still strong in her mouth.

"Welcome, my dear," Catherine whispered in her ear. "We welcome you."

::

Nick Burkhardt's hands gripped hers tightly, pinning her to the ground as he brought his face to hers. With no other way to defend herself she bit. She felt it the moment the skin broke, and went limp as the familiar taste of blood invaded her mouth.

Only this time it was different—instead of her own blood, it was Nick's she tasted—Nick's mouth pressed firmly to hers to ensure she received his blood. It passed her tongue and she swallowed almost reflexively, realizing in a sudden, dazed instant just what she'd done.

"You killed me," she said, her powers gone. "I'm nothing now. You've taken everything."

At least when her mother had done the same, she had gotten something from it. Now, she had only her tears, and her mother's voice ringing in her ears, "_I had such high hopes for you, honey_," even as a door painted a mockingly bright red slams behind her.

When her powers had risen out of her like a spectre, she would have gladly drank a gallon of her kind's blood to restore them—but the strongest magic was in blood, and there was no blood stronger than a Grimm's.


	4. Legacy

**Challenge Name and Number**: #04, Picture Challenge  
**Story Title**: Legacy  
**Word Count**: 2243  
**Warnings** (if applicable): None  
**Pairings** (if applicable): Nick x Juliette  
**Summary**: It's strange how often things went missing, how doors would lock on their own, how all of the furniture in the living room moved about a foot to the right on its own, how the noises made him feel like there was something in the house with them.  
**Author's** **Note**: This is a total AU, although it's been heavily inspired by canon. The quote at the beginning is from Grimm's _The Three Sons of Fortune_. This is the unedited, longer version of the grimm-challenge entry. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

"_I am already aged, said he, my death is nigh, and I have wished to provide for you before my end, money I have not, and what I now give you seems of little worth, but all depends on your making a sensible use of it."_

**Legacy**

"So, things are getting serious between you and Juliette, right?" Hank leans forward, resting an elbow on Nick's desk. Casework is light for the moment, and when they run out of things to talk about their conversation inevitably turns to their personal lives.

"She wants us to move in together. Buy a house." It is finances, and not desire, that prevents him from moving forward; already Juliette is spending more and more time at his house, and he would love nothing more than to have a place they could uniformly call theirs.

"Why not? Do it." Hank grins in that way that makes Nick feel so young. "You've got a good thing, Nick."

He knows. "Actually, a relative of mine died not too long ago. My aunt. I didn't even know she had been sick." It was a shock when he found out, and still hard to believe. "She kept a house in Portland…it's her legacy to me. Pretty old, by the looks of it—it might just be easier to sell it than try to fix it up."

More and more often he has wondered why, if Aunt Marie had kept a house in the city, she had never visited or contacted him, all these years. The closest thing he had to family, dead, and now all he has to cling to are a few of her letters, included in her will, well-wishes for his life and instructions for maintaining the house. He doesn't know whether to hope that Juliette would love the house or hate it.

"Sounds simple enough to me," Hank says. "That's perfect, isn't it?"

::

Juliette loves the house. She loves the character of it, the yellow paint on the outside, the big tree growing by the side of the house, covering half the yard in its shade.

And he loves her, so they move in. Furniture, and boxes, and piles of things in the spare bedroom waiting for a proper home elsewhere, and Nick tucks away one of the letters his Aunt had left him in the tiny drawer of his foyer table.

"—_This house is your legacy, and I leave it to you with all expectation that it remain in our family. Home is a very important thing, you know, and I hope you take care of it like you take care of everything in your life. There was a lot I meant to tell you before I died, and while it is a regret of mine, I am glad you grew up free of the burdens I carried for most of my life—"_

He blames his trouble sleeping on the new arrangements—the bed faces a different wall, and the street lamps outside are brighter than the ones on his old street—and over morning coffee, Juliette shares his concerns.

"You know, at first I thought it was our neighbor, playing music at such a strange hour." There's an edge in the way she says it, referring to the neighbor they've never met. The street has more than a few houses, clearly occupied, yet no one has come by to welcome them or introduce themselves. "Glad to know I'm not alone. I'm sure we'll get used to it, though. Are you going to put up the paintings today?"

He's already laid them out on the floor, artwork of Juliette's collection in black frames with white mats, just waiting to be hung up. He's lost the bag of nails, and spends fifteen minutes searching every room on the main floor, scours every kitchen drawer, and finally gives up when he realizes the hammer's missing, too.

Juliette gives him a look and tells him they can just measure and mark the walls until they can get replacements, stepping and hopping around the paintings to make her way through the room.

It would be difficult to lose the measuring tape with it safe in his pocket. He measures the wall, using a laser level to mark the places where he wants the paintings centered. He's scribbling over a set of printed-out blueprints as he goes, but he doesn't notice the discrepancy until later, after he's gone to the hardware store and has hung the last painting on the wall, perfectly centered.

The wall measurement, when combined with that of the foyer and the kitchen to his right, has a total combined length of forty-four-point-six feet.

The house exterior, however, only shows a forty-one length measurement.

He spends the rest of the day measuring things, marking them down in pencil on the blueprint margins, time flying away from him—he blames this on their lack of a clock, not on his near-obsessive need to understand whether the error lies in his own measurements or the house itself, and even after all his efforts he still cannot account for those missing three feet. He could understand if it was reversed—but it is physically impossible for the inside of a space to be larger than its outside. Impossible. It literally does not add up.

Doubting his pencil and paper, he would test the math on a calculator, but for the life of him he cannot seem to find it anywhere.

::

Juliette gets a call one morning to go in early to her clinic to treat an emergency patient, and Nick tries to salvage what little sleep he can, but still ends up getting up early, moving drowsily across the room—he doesn't stub his toe on the dresser, this time—and when he reaches for the door, it will not open.

He tries again. It is locked—why would a bedroom door be able to lock from the outside? No, that is not it, he discovers, but there is something sticking the door to its doorframe, and even with all his strength he cannot pull it loose.

This presents an obvious problem, the least of which involves getting to work. He tries the door again, and when it still will not budge he heads to the window, lifting it and peering outside.

It would not be far to fall from the second story, but the tree beside the window has good, tall branches—tall enough to climb, if he could just get out to them. He retreats inside, dressing and gathering everything he might need in the chance getting back would require climbing _back _inside, and slides out of the window to the ledge below, one leg and then the other.

He's halfway down the tree when a voice calls out to him.

"Hey, neighbor." It's the man from next door, halfway leaning out his first-floor kitchen window, a cup of coffee in one hand. Nick nearly loses his footing, twisting around to awkwardly take the last few branches down, dropping with as much grace and dignity as he can muster.

"Isn't that your house?" his neighbor calls out, pointing with his free hand.

"Yeah." The sheepishness is inevitable. "Bedroom door wouldn't open, so I had to climb out."

"Ah." He takes it in stride, as if it's something that happens to everyone all the time. "Name's Monroe, by the way. It's nice to finally make your acquaintance."

"Nick. Nick Burkhardt." He remembers that this is the neighbor who likes to play music late at night. "So…you like classical music, right?"

"You can hear that?" Now it is _his_ turn to feel sheepish. "Sorry about that, I'll try to tone it down in the future. It's not a recording, by the way. It's live. Cello."

His surprise is genuine. "That's impressive."

"Well, don't let me keep you. Hope everything goes well with your door." Monroe pauses. "I think there's a guy down the street who's a handyman, if you need a little professional help."

"Thanks." He gives an awkward wave, which Monroe returns, as he heads back towards his front door, locating the spare key and heading inside to gather his things; at this pace, he'll be just in time for work.

::

He notices the sounds, next—odd, twisting things, just out of earshot. It's the house settling, Juliette claims, even when every silence during dinner is filled with a distant creaking or shuffling of floorboards and walls, draperies blowing from a draft without a source.

The cello music starts up earlier than normal; the sun is still out, but it won't be for long.

He notices that the noises disappear altogether while Monroe plays. It's something melancholy, and clear as a bell. The tune of it sticks in his head long after the music stops.

::

Reading more of Marie's letters hardly helps him. There are stories of people she knew and legends she wanted to pass on, histories of their ancestors interspersed with news clippings of obituaries and drawings done in her own hand. The manila envelopes filled with her letters and papers are the one things he can always find in the house.

There's the story in faded newsprint of three children drowned by their mother and another of a old millinery shop, bulldozed to make way for a shopping mall. A dozen more blend together before his eyes, until he comes to a thank-you letter sent in on stationary with a New York address.

"_—I cannot begin to express my gratitude for your invaluable help. For the first time I feel like things are at peace, and I can only hope that she can move on under your care. Such a young soul, that poor girl__—_"

He can't read any more, the slanted cursive hard enough to decipher when he didn't feel like he was reading some sensational work of fiction. One of the last objects in this particular folder is a sheet of music, something complicated enough that he realizes after studying it for a minute that he's holding it upside-down. It gives him an idea, something to latch on to with confidence as he folds the papers back up and replaces them in their envelope.

::

"I'd like to ask you a question." Nick feels bad for practically inviting himself over, but not bad enough to worry too much about it.

"Sure. Uh, make yourself at home." Monroe holds the door open for him, and Nick breezes in, heading for the kitchen; he smells a pot of coffee brewing, and when Monroe offers Nick asks him which cupboard has mugs.

"I assume you had a different question in mind," Monroe jokes, settling into one of the other chairs around his breakfast table.

"Yeah. See, my Aunt owned that house before me. I wanted to know…how often was she here? Did you ever see her?"

"Hmm." He doesn't comment on the question itself, and for that Nick is grateful. "I'm sorry for your loss. She actually wasn't here all that often—I assumed this was her secondary home." He shrugs. "She was hardly here for more than a day or two at a time. She would ask me to play the cello for her in her home—lovely home, by the way, great woodwork. I'm sure you know that. Where was I? Oh, right—I couldn't say no to her, and it wasn't any trouble."

"Did you ever…notice any weird noises coming from the house?"

"Sure. Sometimes I would think she would be home, but there wouldn't be a car in the driveway or any lights on. Not that I really paid it much attention. Is there a problem?"

He feels weird even suggesting it. "I think my house is haunted."

Over a second mug of coffee, he spills everything—how often things went missing, how doors would lock on their own, how all of the furniture in the living room moved about a foot to the right on its own, how the noises made him feel like there was something in the house with them. "It only stops when you play the cello. Only then. Would you—if it's not too much trouble—play another concert in my house?"

He doesn't tell Monroe how he shouted and pleaded one afternoon when Juliette was out running errands, straightening the crooked paintings and replacing the flickering light-bulbs, appealing to whatever spirits were behind it all to stop. He'd give them anything, anything they wanted, if they would leave him alone. Space, they could have—there was a whole unused bedroom on the second floor. Random knickknacks, they had plenty.

The fogged-up mirror in the bathroom had been painted all over with musical notes for an answer, and that had given him his idea.

"You know what, I've heard stranger things." Monroe stands, and takes Nick's empty mug to the sink. "Sure. Tomorrow? Get those ghosts on their best behavior."

::

As he enters their house, Monroe hands Juliette a gift-wrapped box. "Consider it a housewarming present," he says. It is a clock, something rustic with dark woodwork; it matches the room perfectly.

They treat him to dinner and in return Monroe plays his cello, coaxing Bach and Dotzauer from the strings. "This one was your Aunt's favorite," he says, before he plays his last piece.

For the first time, the house is still.

For the first time, it begins to feel like home.

* * *

Notes:

1) I imagined their house as a combination of the Darlington + Florette floorplans at houseplans. co.

2) Look out for a Halloween Special tomorrow! :)

~Jess (My Misguided Fairytale)


	5. Trick or Treat

**Challenge Topic and Number**: #02, Three Little Words  
**Title**: Trick or Treat  
**Word Count**: 1,394  
**Warnings** (if applicable): Mild horror.  
**Summary**: The kids liked to joke that the fence that surrounded the abandoned house on the corner of Pine and Sixth was meant more to keep something in than to keep people out.  
**A/N**: Originally written in tandem as my second entry to the _LJ Idol_ writing competition and for a prompt on the sharp_teeth horror meme ("_The cottage has been empty for years, hidden behind a locked gate - but people say that if you're there at the right time, you can see a face at the window_") exactly one year ago today! ...Granted, the show had all of like 2 episodes at that point, so this story has virtually been proven AU in all ways, but it's a pre-canon AU that takes a few licenses with Nick's childhood and the nature of his Grimm abilities. I hope you enjoy, and Happy Halloween!

* * *

**_Trick or Treat_**

_The kids liked to joke that the fence that surrounded the abandoned house on the corner of Pine and Sixth was meant more to keep something in than to keep people out. Ghosts and things, and not the kind with sheets over their heads begging for candy on the neighbor's doorsteps. Nick tested the edge with one black-gloved hand, and watched the paint chip off to reveal dark, near rotten wood underneath. Seemed like the fence was doing a pretty bad job at both, to him._

_He looked up at the house; on this particular evening it always looked its worst, wreathed in orange from the setting sun, the clapboard siding sagging and weather-beaten from years of neglect. In the past they'd always walked past it every year to get from Nick's neighborhood to Sam's, and one of them would bet the other to hurl a miniature pumpkin over the fence to try and reach the half-dead oak by the porch, or take a step or two down the front walk if they were really feeling daring._

_"I bet you can't even put a foot past the property line!" It was Sam who made the first dare, chewing on a Milky Way and reaching for a second in his pillowcase. _

_"I can, too!" Mark, dressed as a cowboy, unlatched the gate and swung it open, planting spurred boots firmly on the first slab of cracked cement. "Let's see you do better!"_

_Sam was big for his age, and brushed past the gate and then Mark, dropping an empty candy wrapper as he stood a few paces further. They were both still a long ways from the house itself, but could just about make out the iron numbers of the street address nailed above the door. If thirteen was a bad number like everyone said, then two thirteens must be doubly unlucky. _

_"Come on, Nick! Try and beat me, if you can." Sam shouted it, as though the gap from the front walk to the gate was some great distance._

_Slowly, Nick pushed the rickety gate further, listening to the sound as it naturally fell back towards him. _Creeeeak. Creeeak_. Before he could completely lose his courage, he followed his friends, making sure to step only on the cement, and not on the actual ground—rumor said that the people who lived here back when his grandparents were no older than ten had buried their kin on the property instead of in the local cemetery, and he wasn't taking any chances—and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam. _

_Sam dug a hand into his pillowcase for another chocolate bar. "I bet none of the others have come out here, there's no smashed pumpkins. Look, we're the bravest of them all!"_

_Nick glanced up towards the house, frowning as he studied the bay window in the front. He could see where white curtains hung at the periphery, and the slightest edge seemed to move from some motion or nonexistent breeze._

_"I heard Andy say that on Halloween, all the ghosts come out of the ground here, looking for a real flesh-and-blood person to drag underground with them."_

_"Andy's always making stuff up." Nick couldn't shake the image of the moving curtains, but found somehow that he was struck by curiosity just as much as awareness, and wanted to understand just why everyone seemed to fear this house so much._

_"What do you think?" Mark asked._

_"I don't believe in any of that stuff," he said. "None of it's real."_

_"Then you shouldn't have a problem ringing the doorbell." Sam waited, tossing another empty wrapper to the ground. "Go on, do it!"_

_Nick sighed and put one foot in front of the other, shuffling his way up the long, narrow walk to the porch steps. He placed his right foot first, hoping the steps wouldn't give way beneath his boots. Again the ancient wood creaked and bent, warped at the edges where nails had uprooted trying to hold them in place. There were four steps in total, and he took them one-at-a-time, taking a new breath in-between each one. He didn't have to look to know that Mark and Sam were doing the same. _

_"You can do it, buddy!" Sam didn't shout this time, and Nick could barely hear him as he raised a hand towards the doorbell, depressing it lightly with a finger. The _bzzzz_ sound was deafening in his ears, and he thought he saw just the slightest bit of movement in the dust covering the tall window alongside the door. He leaned closer to get a better look._

_He stumbled backward, eyes widening as he saw the figures clearly formed, the faces of the parents who'd died a year prior in a car crash, their skin mottled and burned to expose the bone underneath where hot metal and fire had touched their skin, hair lank and so much longer than he remembered, arms outstretched—_

_Nick turned and ran from the house, dropping his sack of candy on the doorstep. He made Sam split his share, and when asked about what had happened, what he'd seen, he told them he hadn't seen anything. He said there was nothing to see.  
_

* * *

**_Present Day_**

Nick Burkhardt walked the streets carefully that day, although he'd made sure his flashlight had new batteries and his cell-phone was fully charged. Even his car had a full tank of gas. More crimes were committed on Halloween than any other night, and he wasn't taking any chances, especially with all of the strange things that had been happening lately. It made him feel better to know his streets were secure, and it was something he had no problem doing himself.

It was a bit too early for the teenagers to be out, but he could see parents and small children trick-or-treating at a few of the bungalows nearby. Lit pumpkins gleamed from steps and fake cobwebs hung from tree branches, and as Nick crossed Sixth he realized just what house awaited him a few blocks up.

The memory came rushing back like a hard punch to the stomach, but he carried on. He thought he'd forgotten all about it; the night, the old house, the spilled candy, the ghosts in the window. That year for Halloween he had dressed as a firefighter. Not _too _far off the mark.

The house seemed less foreboding with a wash of maturity and skepticism over his eyes, but he still hesitated before unlatching the gate. It had been well over a decade, and the house seemed to age without grace, but now thin tendrils of ivy had started to grow over the clapboards and curl around the windows. The green was bright against the washed-out brown; the deserted house was a good environment for them. They flourished here.

It was more than a little unsettling, but as he flicked open the gate—it creaked, but he ignored it—and walked inside, he spotted more than a few smashed pumpkins against the old oak by the corner of the porch.

He didn't know what he was expecting. Would he find eighteen-year-old Milky Way wrappers, ground underfoot into the dirt? Would he find a blue-striped pillowcase with rock-hard candy waiting for him?

The easy and simple answer was no. Of course not. Nick walked up the porch steps almost automatically, just to prove to himself that what he had seen all those years ago was a fluke of his memory and nothing more. Anything else would just be impossible.

He didn't ring the doorbell, just looked around the porch, feeling a satisfied smile creep up to his face. Just as he thought—there were no ghosts, there was _nothing_, just as he'd thought—

His glance back was unconscious, and it took him a moment to place the face that formed this time, smiling at him with a wide, empty mouth and eyes that seemed dead and _cold_.

It looked far too much like Juliette.


	6. Goldschläger

**Title**: Goldschläger  
**Summary**: Death tastes like cinnamon.  
**Word Count**: 1374  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own!  
**Author's Note**: This is a retelling of a scene from episode 1x18, _Cat and Mouse_. According to the Grimm Wiki, the name of the bartender is Quinn. The quote is from _Godfather Death_. _Elster _is German for _magpie_...there haven't been magpie Wesen yet, but I think that would be pretty cool. This story took Second Place and Most Creative recognition at the 5th Grimm Challenge on LJ. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_There he saw how thousands and thousands of candles were burning in countless rows, some large, some medium-sized, others small._

_Every instant some were extinguished, and others again burnt up, so that the flames seemed to leap hither and thither in perpetual change. See, said death, these are the lights of men's lives._

**_Goldschläger_**

"They're coming. I don't know when and I don't know who it'll be, but you must be ready." The man hunched over the bar speaks in a tone just loud enough to escape suspicion, but quiet enough that the trio of Mauhertz at a table in the back wouldn't be able to hear. "Another gin and tonic, Quinn, if you please."

He reaches for the shelf; the other man wrinkles his nose and waves his hand to direct him towards a different bottle. "The Plymouth, this time."

Quinn mixes the drink, cutting and juicing a fresh lime. "Did you know, Sal, that a G&T was first created as a way to mask the taste of quinine to treat malaria?" He chuckles to himself. "Malaria. What a way to die, eh?"

Sal coughes into one coat sleeve. "A thousand worse plagues on the Verrat! And no drinks as fine as this one to see them off to the other side."

Quinn pauses, resting both arms on the polished wood of the bar to lean forward. "And a member of the Verrat has…sniffed us out, you say?"

"A Hundjäger, if my sources are correct. They're very good at that."

"Are you telling me this so I have a chance to run?" Quinn asked.

"No, of course not. I know you'd never run if the Laufer needed you." Sal takes a deep sip of his drink, the unhurried nature in deep contrast to the seriousness of his words. "I'm telling you this so you can kill him."

"A back-alley brawl isn't exactly the type of attention we want to attract. And I'm not on the front lines, either...you'd do better asking someone with a...more specific skill set."

"Hah, you're something different. A Lausenschlange who doesn't like to fight, who lets a Mauzhertz come in here and keep his head. What's the world coming to?" He sighs, glancing back at the Mauhertz for a moment; they're all engaged in their own conversation, but he knows their ears work better than those of most Wesen.

"Traditional methods aren't for you, I see. And that's why you're going to poison him. Take this," and Sal reaches deep within his cost pocket to withdraw a clear glass vial, stoppered at one end. "Slow acting, but inevitably fatal without the antidote. Specially made, too, so even his Hundjäger nose won't be able to smell it."

Already Quinn can feel the sweat starting to stick his shirt to his back. "Hand it over, then. A little bit of poison in one drink is simple enough, so long as I don't get caught."

Sal laughes, his gravely voice catching and turning it into something far more downhearted. "If I were you, I'd poison every bottle rather than take that chance."

* * *

Quinn hasn't had a customer all day. Somehow his usual patronage of Laufer runaways and Wesen regulars have gotten the message. It's lonely, wiping down glasses and tabletops with only the muted jazz in the background for company, to the point where Quinn considers closing down early when he walks in.

Older, clearly a foreigner, clearly a Wesen by the way he walks straight up to the bar instead of hovering around the entrance, trying to make sense of the German name of the bar with its decidedly American decor.

"What can I get you to drink?" Quinn asks.

Sal had suggested poisoning every bottle. It hasn't been necessary; Quinn knows from just looking at the shelves of bottles behind him which one the Hundjäger will choose. And every instinct in his body is screaming at him now that this man is the one, and in facing him he is facing the Verrat head-on. And in facing them, he is facing death.

He had placed the bottle slightly off center, on a high enough shelf that the light from the windows can catch on the gold flakes floating in the liqueur.

"Yes, some of that...the Goldschläger, please," he says.

There is something about the appeal of drinking gold that Quinn can understand. It is extraordinary and memorable; it elevates oneself beyond imbibing something so simple or plain as to be made with wheat or juniper. It is gold, and he does not have to be an Elster to appreciate it.

"Did you know that this drink is named for a profession of gold beaters, the people who would make gold leaf by beating bars of gold into thin sheets?" He is beginning to sweat again, but he manages to keep his voice level and conversational. He imagines being surrounded by gold on all sides, turning a lump of it into something flatter than paper, stretching and curling all around him like a ribbon. He imagines drowning in it.

"No. I didn't know that." A few seconds pass. "You might be able to help me with something." He takes the glass from Quinn but does not drink it.

"How so?"

"I was told you were the man to talk to if I needed to get...certain documents." The flakes of gold continue to swirl in the drink, mostly ignored.

The man before him is as good as dead. Quinn just needs to hold him here a moment longer, get him to take a sip and fall.

"Of course. But you'll need photographs before you can get any documents made." He's stalling, he knows, and this man's carefully crafted patience will not last forever. He just needs him to take a sip. Just one. "Do you have any photographs?"

"Well, yes," he says, shuffling around in his pockets; his coat opens just enough that Quinn can see the edge of a gun. It chills his blood. In his drink, a pair ice cubes clink together, each slowly melting away.

"I have my passport, if it'll help. " He notices Quinn staring at his drink and picks it up, swirling the contents around. "Where can I get these papers made?"

If he has to, Quinn decides, he'll rip the bottle from the wall and pour it down his throat. "A camera store downtown." He gives the name and address easily, feeling somehow like he's just committed a betrayal, even though if this man were only to drink he could share every secret he knows and it will not matter.

"Thank you, you've been a greater help than you know." He sets the passport beside him on the tabletop; the edge of it is tilted just slightly up, and Quinn is overcome with curiosity to see what name is printed on the inside. "Get yourself a drink, on me. I insist."

His words take a moment to register, but once they do Quinn's pulse jumps, but years of bartending work have him reaching for a clean glass almost on instinct after hearing the order.

"Of course. Glad I could help." He pours an undersized amount and replaces the bottle. The Hundjäger lifts his glass, and Quinn moves his so they clink together.

"To...what shall we toast to? To health?"

"To liberty." Quinn says it as an echo, and together the two drain their glasses.

The taste of it is bitter and sharp, the cinnamon overpowering in a way that isn't entirely pleasant. It is the texture that is alien to him, sliding thick like syrup, every second slowed down and every sensation aggrandized to a torturous level. Over the rim of his glass he meets the Hundjäger's eyes, and knows without a shadow of a doubt that this man is going to kill him. His last thought is that if he is going to die, he should have poured himself a bigger glass.


End file.
